The Talking Board
by whatanoddgirl
Summary: The Ballet Rats are introduced to Ouija boards. Erik isn't too happy with this.


Authors note: Ok, I've messed with the time period here. The Ouija board was not distributed this way until about 1890. But since its not that far off from the time Phantom takes place, I've taken liberties with this story. Also, this takes place before Erik falls in love with Christine. Bear that in mind. Please review and be kind!

Life was never boring at the Opera. There was always some new story to hear, either from one of the girls or from Joseph Buquet, about the opera ghost. The little ballet rats, in their free time, loved nothing more than to listen to a bone-chilling story about a skeleton in a dress suit who watched every performance from his very own box. It was mysterious and intriguing, and infinitely more interesting than their paltry little lives. So when, one day, little Cecile Jammes came bounding into one of the common dressing rooms shouting "I've found it! I've found it! A way to speak to the ghost ourselves!", they immediately stopped whatever they were doing and looked up at her in question.

"What do you mean, 'speak to the ghost'?" Inquired Marie, a more sensible girl out of the group of overexcited, rather gullible ballerinas, yet not quite grown up enough to not want to hear about the ghost.

"I mean," Jammes could hardly contain her excitement. "That there is a way that one can speak to the dead, and _I have it." _She seemed quite proud of this, and most likely wished to lord over this fact for a while before revealing her thrilling secret.

"Well, then, out with it! What is this magical thing you have?" By now every girl was watching Jammes wide-eyed and anxious.

Grinning and reveling in the attention, Jammes opened a large bag and pulled out a very strange-looking wooden board with letters and numbers painted onto it. "This, my dear friends," she said as she presented it, laying it very gently onto a table. "Is a talking board." She was unaware of the girls skeptical and puzzled looks, for her nose was too high in the air and blocked her view of the rest of the room. She came out of it only when she heard a very blunt, "What?" from Marie.

She quickly realized that she would have to explain. "Well, it's a board, and when you put this on it," She held up a wooden planchett with a glass window in it. "It moves by itself, and you look through the glass and it'll spell something out with the letters, see?" She pointed to the painted letters on the board.

Meg Giry spoke up. "But how will that let us talk to the ghost?"

Jammes was patient in explaining what her cousin Jeanne had explained to her not 24 hours ago. "Well, see, it doesn't quite move by itselfa ghost has to move it! So, we can ask the opera ghost questions, and he can move the planchett to answer us!" With this, all the girls drew in a quick breath, looked at each other and smiled. Marie smiled and gave a playfully wicked look. "Shall we then?"

That night, after rehearsals finished, the girls ran straight into one of the dressing rooms and locked the door behind them. Jammes quickly got two white candles and lit them, while the rest nervously chose a seat on the floor, with the board on a table in the middle of the circle of ballerinas.

"I don't know about this," Meg Giry said tentatively. "Mother says the ghost doesn't like being talked about, and I'm certain if he doesn't like being talked _about_, he won't like being talked _to_."

But of course, unless she was telling them all some new, fantastic secret of the opera ghosts, the poor little speck of a Giry was brushed off. "Nonsense." Jammes firmly stated. "Why wouldn't he want to speak to us? We're all very interesting girls, I say." The group all nodded and voiced their agreement with her. Poor little Meg was overruled.

Jammes had turned off all other lights but the two white candles, which she placed on either side of the board. "Now, she said. "We all put our hands on the planchett and wait for it to move." The girls looked at each other, their little hearts beating like hummingbirds in their chests, and carefully and slowly put their hands onto the planchett. They waited.

And waited.

And waited. Nothing happened. After about a quarter of an hour of this, Marie could not contain herself any longer. "Oh! This is ridiculous! The opera ghost can't speak to us through a" But before she could finish her sentence, the planchett jerked across the board, though not landing on any particular letter or number. The girls screamed out loud. "It's the ghost!" They cried almost in unison.

"Wait!" said Jammes. "Let's ask him something."

"Well, what shall we ask him?" Meg asked, nearly in tears in her fear.

Meanwhile, Erik had been stalking in one of the hidden corridors behind that particular dressing room. When he heard the girls' shouts of "It's the ghost!", he was at first surprised, wondering if he had perhaps accidentally made a noise. He stopped to listen to them, and soon realized he had not, and that they were playing some childish game in which they attempted to speak to him. The _dead. _He laughed inwardly. _So they wish to speak to the opera ghost, do they? _

"Ask him his name!" A high-pitched voice suggested. From beyond the wall, he heard their question. "W-W-What's your name, Monsieur le Fantôme de L'Opéra?" He recognized the voice as little Giry's. _Perhaps I should speak to her mother about her toying with the supernatural. _Brushing the thought aside, he took a step to continue on his way. However, before he could go any further, he heard little Jammes' voice say "Look! He's speaking again!" He stopped, strangely curious.

Marie spoke aloud what the board, assumingly, was spelling out. "My… name…. is…. Blanchville. His name is Blanchville!" All the girls murmured in delight at having made contact with the famed opera ghost.

"Let's ask him another question! What are you doing haunting our opera, Monsieur Blanchville?" Jammes said. "I… am… in… love… with… you…. Jammes. _Mon Dieu_, the opera ghost is in love with me!" The girls were now looking at Jammes with amazement, while she was trying her best to hide her satisfaction at the added attention. Surely _this _would earn her the popularity second only to Sorelli!

When Erik heard this, he was disgusted, annoyed, and… amused. He tried to think of what he could do to make that thing move to spell out something of his choice, but his thoughts were interrupted by Marie's usually skeptic voice.

"I'm sure of it! Jammes, you're probably moving it yourself." She accused.

"I am certainly not! Why would I want the opera ghost in love with me? He's a skeleton!"

This was the final straw. Jammes' puerile antics were annoying at best, and damaging to his reputation at worst. How was he going to have the management under his thumb if everyone thought he was merely a lovesick fool called Blanchville!

Marie provided the necessary prompt for him. "Well, if you're _really _moving it, _Monsieur Blanchville, _prove it! Come and speak to us like a normal ghost!"

The girls were shocked by her request, and nervously waited to see if anything happened. After what seemed like forever, nothing did, and Marie hautily said "See, I told you all. There's no"

"I am the opera ghost!" A fearsome voice came booming from behind the wall, and all the girls turned pale and were paralyzed with fear, too afraid to even run. Even Marie sat perfectly still.

"You, little Jammes, are quite the bold little thing to have made such assumptions about me! But I must confess, I do love you!"

Jammes was frozen with shock. "YouYyou do?"

"Why, yes, of course. Why do you suppose I go and watch every one of your performances? Why do you suppose I demand 20 thousand francs a month? So that I may someday build a house only for you, here where I am, and you may live with me and be my love! I will have you and you will never leave me, little Jammes! Why, my darling, have you no answer? Don't you want me for a husband? You'd be famous! And perhaps I should relate to you what happened to the other girls who did not want me for a husband?"

He assumed Jammes was too fear-stricken to answer, so he went on. "Years ago, when the opera was first built, long before you came here, I was a patron. A regular patron. There was a lady… much like you. She was a ballerina as well. I loved her dearly. She loved me. But… my family was rich, and did not approve of our affair. So…"

He let the girls sit there in anticipation for a bit. "So we agreed the only thing to be done was to emulate Romeo and Juliet. One night, we sat in her dressing room, a bottle of poison ready and waiting on the table. She was nervous, but I was ready to die for my love. So, I took the first sip. My chest tightened. My mouth bled. She looked at me, wide-eyed. I waited for her to drink, but she never did. 'My love, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.' she said. The last thing I saw in life was a tall man waiting for her at the door. She left with him."

He paused.

"_That man,_" He sneered. "Soon met with an unfortunate accident, as did my lover. Since then, I have searched her out… and found her in YOU, little Jammes!"

Jammes was sobbing loudly and obnoxiously in the room now. "Ah, yes! You will pay, Cecile! YOU WILL PAY for your betrayal! You and your lover, a thousand times over until the end of time! You will be mine, in our very own little placeHere in Hell!" He let out a terrible baritone laugh.

The girls all let out the loudest, most high-pitched screams of their lives. He heard them rush out of the room faster than they've ever flown before.

He was not afraid of being discovered. Who would honestly believe the little ballet rats? What was one more story flying about? Didn't he already have a head of fire or some rot?

And as the little girls disappeared down the hallways, most of them crying "Mother! Mother!", Erik snickered to himself and checked his pocket watch with an eerily calm sort of air.

"I do believe the opera ghost is late for his supper."


End file.
